Wow. I just sounded so pouty. Maybe I’m still intoxicated.
He studies my face for a second, then takes the cloth from my hands and starts wiping my mouth. “Are you done throwing up?”
I nod, which was a terrible thing to do because I start heaving again. This time, when I’m done, he sighs. “Come on, babygirl. Let’s get you cleaned up and get some medicine in you.”
“Am I sick?”
What? Did I ask that out loud?
“No, baby. You’re drunk. I was barely able to get any food in you before you passed out on the couch. And when I tried to get you to wake up and take some ibuprofen, you told me you couldn’t open your mouth to take it.” He chuckles and gently pulls me up to stand. “Which was funny as hell since your mouth was open while you were telling me that.”
I giggle and blink several times, and holy cow. Patrick isn’t wearing a shirt.
“Whoa,” I mumble as I let my gaze roam over his inked-up chest.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t say anything as he leads me to the vanity and finds my toothbrush.
I stare at him the entire time I brush my teeth, and by the look on his face, he’s fully amused by it.
A raised scar catches my eye. It’s darker than the rest of his skin, almost as if it’s a newer wound. “What happened there?”
He glances down and runs one of his thick fingers over it. “Bullet wound. It was worth it, though. My bosses’ girls weren’t harmed, and that’s all that matters.”
A wave of emotion rolls through me. “You… protected them?”
His hand wraps around my wrist, and he tugs me out of the bathroom. “Yeah, baby. Women are precious and need to be protected by all means necessary.”
By the time I process those sweet words, he’s led me through the house and into what I assume is his room.
I dig my heels into the carpet as panic creeps over me.
“Ana, relax. I’m bringing you in here, so if you get sick again, I’m close by. You can sleep in my bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.” He points to the sitting area that’s almost as big as a living room.
“You can’t sleep on the couch. This is your bedroom. You should sleep on the bed.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sleeping over there, and you’re sleeping on the bed where you belong.”
“But…”
“Anastasia Marie Ryan,” he says quietly.
I snap my head back to look up at him. “My last name is Clayburn.”
“No, it fucking isn’t. That bastard doesn’t get to lay one more fucking claim on you. As of now, your last name is Ryan. Remember, little one, you’remine.” He pins me with a stern stare. “It’s Anastasia Ryan now.”
Oh. Well… I guess that doesn’t sound so bad.
13
PATRICK
Cali:So… How’s it going with Ana?
Paisley:Have you told her about us?
Scarlet:She’s coming on Monday, right?
Kieran:Why the fuck do I keep getting added to group chats?
